A Lack Of Color
by Leaves Of Grass
Summary: DH Missing Moment. After Ron's departure, Harry and Hermione turn to each other for comfort...and a little more than that. Harry/Hermione. R&R!


**Usually, I pretty much stick to canon pairings. I think Jo mentioned once that Harry and Hermione could have ended up together if Ron hadn't come back when he did and it stuck in my head so** I thought it would be interesting to explore the possibility of a H/Hr relationship.** I hope you enjoy!**

_Disclaimer: I do not own the awesomeness that is Harry Potter._

It was drizzling. Harry woke up with a start and looked around the tent anxiously. There was, of course, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing, except Hermione, sitting wide awake in the middle of the tent. But that wasn't unusual. He knew she hadn't been getting a lot more sleep than he had, although he doubted she was assaulted by the same nightmares, or a prickling scar, which was what had woken him that particular night.

He could barely make out her shape against the dark background. She had her back to him; her legs were crossed and she was slightly hunched. Harry got up and walked toward her unsteadily and trying not to make noise, not wanting to startle her. He sat down on the floor next to her, but she didn't acknowledge him in any way.

"Nightmares?" he asked, his voice a little rough. He cleared his throat. She shook her head and turned to face him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked a little pale.

"No," she whispered. "It's just—it feels like my brain's juggling my thoughts. And I can't sleep because there are so many of them." He nodded, and allowed himself to be a little surprised at the fact that she was talking to him. They'd been mostly ignoring each other over the past few days, communicating by nods, headshakes and pointing. "How about you?" she asked, almost as an after-thought.

"My scar," was all he said. She didn't seem surprised. Two weeks ago, Harry thought, she would have probably looked scared, a small wrinkle forming between her eyebrows as she frowned, worried. But he knew better than to expect anything like that at this point. Ever since Ron had left, Hermione had been turned into little more than an automat. She cooked, cleaned, and paced around like she didn't quite know where she was or what she was doing. Harry knew he should've started a conversation, dealt with Ron leaving—but he was reluctant to talk about it himself. So the days went by, silent and awkward.

But he was unhappy about it. His friendship with Hermione had never been a loud one, if he was honest. They never spent a lot of their time alone laughing or being silly. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Hermione was the reliable friend he could talk to when there was something on his mind, something serious. She was logical and a good listener and she always gave him her honest, usually sensible opinion and she was quite often the one who made him think, the one who slowed him down when he was being rash and hotheaded. So yes, he and Hermione didn't laugh nearly as much as he and Ron. They didn't talk as much as he and Ginny, nor did they have as much in common. But she was his best friend, and it upset him not to be able to talk to her. More than that, it upset him to see her in such bad spirits. He wasn't oblivious to the fact that she'd been crying herself to sleep nearly every night. And he had no idea how to make her feel better. Ron would've known what to do, he thought, a little bitterly. Sometimes he put his foot in his mouth (in fact, maybe most of the times would be more accurate) but sooner or later he always managed to put a smile on her face. And he couldn't. She would barely talk to him, and when she did it was mostly to discuss horcruxes, or theories, or other people, or any one of their many over-talked subjects. And he had to admit, even with everything that was going on, he missed her.

It was with these thoughts in his mind that Harry cupped Hermione's cheek in his hand and turned her to look at him. It was with the object of making her feel better that he pulled her close and hugged her tightly. But what he was thinking when he leaned in and kissed her, he could not have said, not in a million years.

Kissing Hermione, Harry thought, was an entirely unexpected experience, far from anything he could have ever imagined—had he ever imagined what it would be like to kiss her, that is, which he in fact hadn't.

The first time he'd kissed anyone- his Ravenclaw crush, Cho, he recalled- he had been so dazed and caught off guard, he hadn't quite processed it properly; his head hadn't been in it, and maybe, he figured, neither had his heart. With Ginny it had been quite the opposite: everytime he'd kissed her, he'd been almost painfully aware: of her scent, of her warmth, of the frantic pounding of his heart. Kissing Ginny had been exciting every time; he'd felt his lips feverish against hers, his hands holding her tight, and yet never tight enough, breathing in her sweet, flowery perfume as though one might inhale oxygen after a long time underwater. But Hermione…she was completely different.

Where Ginny had been firm, Harry noticed, Hermione was hesitant. Where she'd been passionate, Hermione was sweet, and gentle. Harry felt his hands move, almost of their own accord; one, placing itself on the back of her neck, caressing her bushy, tangled hair ever so slightly; the other one, on her waist, pulling her closer to him. There was a part of him that knew it was inappropriate, a little voice in the back of his head telling him to stop, to pull away, to forget all about it. But he couldn't, and he didn't.

Hermione's lips were soft and warm. They moved against his slowly, cautiously. Harry took a deep breath and noticed Hermione had her very own, cinnamon-like, scent. He felt oddly comforted. At home. Harry tilted his head to the side, and carefully brushed his tongue against Hermione's lips. She gave a little gasp of surprise before parting her lips. Harry was immersed in the moment: nothing else was real but the two of them embracing. Nothing else had ever existed before, he had never kissed another pair of lips, never touched a different skin, never buried his hands in anyone else's hair.

Harry slipped his right hand under Hermione's sweater, feeling his way up the smooth skin of her back and pressed her hard against him, while her fingers intertwined with his hair. Without opening his eyes, he carefully laid her on his bunk. She didn't object, nor did she stop kissing him, this time more vigorously, hurriedly, even. Soon, they were out of breath and pulled away. Harry looked deep into his best friend's eyes; they were bright, and her dilated pupils made them seem dark, almost black rather than their usual chocolate. Her face was flustered, her hair disheveled. She tugged sligthly at the hem of Harry's shirt, as if asking for permission. Harry nodded, and she removed it without looking at him. Hermione brushed her fingertips against his chest, exploring it, from his lower abdomen all the way to his collarbone. Harry leaned in and kissed her long and hard, again and again, completely unaware of the minutess passing, for he had completely lost sense of time, of space, of being. And then, suddenly, she pulled back.

She sat back on the bed and looked at Harry. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was definitely something strange about her gaze. Her eyes were oddly unfocused, and he was reminded of the way people usually looked after they'd been hit with a Memory Charm. He couldn't blame her, he felt rather groggy himself. He looked back on what had just happened as if it were a dream he'd just woken up from. Surely he hadn't just snogged his best friend? He didn't feel any different. He didn't feel his heart racing against his rib cage, or that funny feeling in the pit of his stomach he always got whenever he looked at Ginny. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he felt nothing but exhaustion and a throbbing headache. He wanted to sleep. His eyes prickled and his thoughts felt foggy and disconnected. He looked away from her, unnerved by her vacant staring. A drop of rain fell on top of his head, and he glanced up at the canvas roof, where he saw a small leak. He reached for his wand, still avoiding Hermione's eyes, and repaired it absent-mindedly. A couple of minutes went by, silently, and Harry decided he couldn't pretend he found his fingernails terribly exciting any longer, and looked at his friend.

Hermione was, Harry thought objectively, a mess. Her hair was disheveled, frizzy and tangled. Her cheeks were flushed and, Harry noticed with some alarm, her eyes were brimming with tears. She lowered her head, and hid her face in her palms. Her shoulders shook as she started sobbing silently. Harry was reminded of Cho for the second time that night.

He'd never been good at comforting people. He thought, a little embarrassed, that he had never had to deal with a weeping Ginny. He'd always found her lack of crying wonderfully convenient, and he admired her for it as well. But now he wondered if she hadn't been holding back tears every time, precisely because he never knew what to do around sad people.

He put his arm awkwardly around Hermione's shoulders, which were still quivering. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked up at him. The expression on her face read "Now what?".

**I began to write this as a one-shot, but I don't think I'm quite done with it yet. What do you guys think? Please review! And thanks so much for reading!**


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